Today I just couldn’t stand myself any longer, and I opened up The Dreaded Synopsis. Yup, still sucky. I tweaked, which mostly meant deleting whole chunks of text, and tried to make it appear as if it made sense.

Who knows if it does? Well, actually, I sent it to a couple of folks who might be telling me soon.

In other news, I went to Target yesterday and bought books (my thanks to Goedi, who mentioned that Minnesota does indeed have bookstores. No thanks for his sarcastic tone). I also bought a new pair of shorts, berry-colored madras, which made my cousin say I always dressed “interestingly.” She did mean it as a compliment, but I didn’t know it was that different. I am not conscious of trying to be different, I used to really dress outrageously, and I thought I was more normal now. It’s kinda cool I’m still not normal.

The Son is at sailing school today, and now that the Synopsis is done finished complete something, I can get back to creative writing. Friday is the Son’s birthday, and we will probably be going to the opening day of Hellboy II to celebrate. I not-so-secretly love that he is into that kind of dark, fantastic stuff.

In other words, and to make a long story short, and to cut to the chase, and other banal time cliches, I am really boring right now. It’s weird not to be insanely stressed.

Okay. More later. Aren’t you thrilled?

Megan

PS: No, the pic has nothing to do with anything. But it’s less boring than the text, no?

The Son and his class did a study of Ghana this year (as well as the Inuit, and the Amazon, I think). Anyway. We have a CD called London Is The Place For Me, which is a compilation of Trinidadian calypso in London, and includes the song “Birth of Ghana” by Lord Kitchener. The Spouse burned it onto a disc for our son to take into school and wow his classmates.

Does it make up for the fact that between the two of his parents, we can find a song that relates to almost any topic, and will sing it loudly even though the Son begs us to stop?

Probably not.

But still.

(Scott also included the Wylde Bunch “Last Day of School.” Beats Alice Cooper’s “School’s Out For Summer” anyday).

“He’s an inter-dimensional hedgehog.”

The Eight Year-Old, telling his friend why Sonic the Hedgehog doesn’t really look like a hedgehog.

The Eight Year-Old has a terrific imagination, so much so that many (many!) of his stories begin with “Imagine if . . .”

This morning, while walking to school, he dreamed up a movie, titled The End Of Elmo, where Elmo is an assassin who has to kill his best friend, Grover. Elmo’s name in this scenario?

Hellmo.

Love that kid.

And then I made him take a regular photo:

“Regular” being a relative term, of course (I’ve since cut my hair, btw, but I look ghastly today, so you can’t see.)

The Hard-Working Spouse got a HUGE freelance assignment just in time for his long weekend, so I am on Keeping The Spawn Entertained Duty. So unless you want me to talk Pokemon or Cartoon Network, I’m conversationally dry.

In the sorta good news department, I have found a conversation about Pokemon longer than five minutes will make me fall asleep faster than two shots of whiskey and a nighttime flu remedy. Joins the Theory Of Relativity (Dad) and hockey rules (Spouse) for things guaranteed to put me to sleep.

Two eight year-old boys affecting British accents is cute for maybe five minutes. Two hours? Not so much.

The Really Hate Arch People and Their Coy Ways Spouse and I have tried hard not to force our kid to be cool. But sometimes? Like when he sings Black Sabbath’s “Ironman” or Motorhead’s “Ace of Spades” or when he runs through the park singing The Clash’s “White Riot?” I fear we have failed.

Just now he was singing the Ramones’ “Rockaway Beach.”

Of course, that music was all cool back in the day, so it’s not cool now. Right? And he insists he’s a Goth, even though I tell him they are way more bombastically dreary than he ever could be (despite all best efforts).

Aww! My dad and the eight year-old the day before Thanksgiving.

The Son has lately been on a tirade regarding R-rated movies. He really wants to see them (”300. I can’t wait until I can see that.” Neither can I, honey, neither can I), and says the film industry makes more R-rated movies than any other. He might have a point. It’s gotten so prevalent, he says, that they show R-rated movie ads on kids’ TV:

“Even on Dora! [imitates Dora The Explorer] Can you say “Gone, Baby, Gone?”

He is a crack-up.

In other movie-related items, last night I watched Mae West and Cary Grant in She Done Him Wrong. Lord, what a period piece! It has a lot of good West lines (”Hello, warm, dark and handsome”/Captain Cummings: “Haven’t you ever met a man who could make you happy?” Diamond Lou: “Sure, lots of times.”) Mae was sewn into most of her costumes, and you can tell–she can barely move, she’s so trussed into her clothing.

It is so hard to believe this movie was nominated for an Academy Award. Other movies released that year include King Kong, Duck Soup, 42nd Street, Dinner At Eight, Little Women, and Queen Christina.